


comme les étoiles dans le ciel

by MannaTea



Series: Rewritten, Reborn, Revived [10]
Category: Versailles no Bara | Rose of Versailles
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24475501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MannaTea/pseuds/MannaTea
Summary: A short story collection. Chapters may be read in any order.
Relationships: André Grandier/Oscar François de Jarjayes
Series: Rewritten, Reborn, Revived [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/653711
Comments: 28
Kudos: 12





	1. Distance

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on January 1, 2009 as part of a 365 Drabbles Challenge on Livejournal. The goal was to write a drabble a day for the entire year. I don’t remember how many I actually wrote in 2009, but 28 'fics were posted as part of this collection. These are decidedly not drabbles in the traditional sense (100 words long exactly); rather, they are all short stories. These stories are not connected to one another by plot or theme, so you may skip around as the mood strikes.
> 
> The title translates to, "As the Stars in the Sky" because the idea of there being a lot of small stories, like little stars in the sky, just seemed cute to me. It's also supposed to hearken back to the post-barfight kiss scene where André says to a sleeping Oscar, _Les étoiles sont belles...je vais te ramener en te portant ainsi jusqu'au petit matin._ ("The stars are so beautiful... I will carry you home, just like this, until the early morning.")
> 
> Please enjoy.

She’s sleeping on the settee, the little one in her foyer.

He came to ask her for a fencing match, but the moment he sees her in repose, he’s loathe to disturb her peace.

Instead, he stops to watch her for a while: the gentle rise and fall of her chest with each blessed breath, the ghost of a smile as it passes her dreaming mouth, the restless curling of her legs beneath her, a slight turn of her head, a whispering sigh as the wind blows her curtains back and the afternoon sun splashes across her face, turning her hair a molten gold.

The sight makes him smile, but he can’t help the feeling that washes over him: something is missing—something big. It’s probably not important, he tells himself, and drapes a blanket over her.

She settles, fingertips curling into the soft material, contentment in her expression.

Like any human being, she seeks warmth.

And she _is_ warm. His fingers skim over her cheek and he can’t help but let the movement carry them down to her neck, the skin warm and soft. Her pulse beats beneath his fingertips, a strong and steady _alléluia_.

Some see her stiff posture and clipped orders and believe her person is as frigid as an arctic wind, but André, who has seen the raging fires of her heart, disagrees thoroughly. Oscar has always seemed to him to be a warm spring breeze: a welcome relief after the bitter winter, but only cool when compared to the oppressive heat of summer.

He kneels beside her, touches his nose to hers, feels her breath fan across his face. He’s never been so close; less than an inch separates their lips. It would be so easy to close the distance, to steal a kiss from her warm mouth.

But he finds his lips are trembling, and his hands, and suddenly the whole of him feels as if he is being torn asunder. Tears work their way down his face, a physical manifestation of guilt and confused, overwhelming love. It all feels like too much to him: too much to consider, too much to bear.

That inch may as well be a mile.

So he pulls away, his fingers brushing her hair back from her face, one last little touch to comfort himself, and he leaves her there to sleep on the settee, the little one in her foyer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Alléluia_ = Hallelujah


	2. Trop Parler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written for Loulou.k and Zainab, who had mentioned multiple times that they wanted to see a jealous Oscar. :') This barely resembles the original work, being three times longer, but hopefully the additions make it a better story.

The household staff is always talking. Oscar, as the oddest inhabitant of the de Jarjayes mansion, usually finds herself the subject of discussion. It makes sense: she’s twenty years old, strong-spirited and stubborn, she wears clothes meant for a man’s body, and her skill with a sword exceeds that of everyone she’s ever met.

But today, for the first time in recent memory, she comes across the maids talking about someone else.

They’re bent over washtubs, hands red from scrubbing, sweat beading on their brows, but it’s the laughter that bubbles up between them that gives Oscar pause.

“You _would_ ,” one of them says, her ash-blonde hair struggling to escape its cap as she scrubs the fabric in her hands.

“What do you mean, _I_ would?” the little brunette returns, pushing her sleeves up. “If he asked you, would you say no? What do you think, Rachelle?”

The third woman giggles, ignoring the way her damp hair hangs in her face. “Simonne can tease you all she likes, Azeline, but I think we both know the truth! If such a man deigned to show her even a small token of affection, she would swoon into his arms in an instant!”

“ _Swoon?!_ ” Simonne gives a disbelieving laugh and tosses her head. “I’m hardly the type to swoon!”

“Perhaps not,” Azeline acknowledges, “but if a fine specimen of a man set his sights on you, you may change your mind…”

“He may be a fine-looking man—”

“More than just _fine-looking_ , I’d say. Have you ever really _looked_ at him?”

“Well, all right then,” Simonne admits, “fine-looking with an ideal temperament for a husband!”

“So it’s his _temperament_ that makes you swoon!”

Rachelle laughs and brushes her elbow against her forehead before the sweat can fall into her eyes. “Suppose he would show one of us a little attention… Who would he choose?”

The others join her in laughter, their answers overlapping one another as the maids rush to compliment one another.

“Azeline, you have the prettiest face!”

“But Simmone’s figure is ideal!”

“Rachelle’s skin is the clearest and she has such perfect teeth!”

In the cacophony of compliments ranging from eye color to foot size to cooking ability, Oscar remembers her original reason for coming around behind the house—avoiding her father at the front door—and forces herself out from behind the corner of the building. Whoever they’re talking about is a lucky man to have three pretty women interested in him!

But the voices only grow louder when they see her, the young women urging her over insistently, as if expecting her to weigh in with her own opinion.

“Oscar,” they begin, smiling, “you would know better than anyone!”

“Know what?” she asks, certain they’ll ask her opinion on which of them is prettiest. How could she choose when they each have something lovely about them?

But she can’t hide the surprise on her face when Simmone says, quite clearly, “Please tell us André’s ideal type of woman!”

Oscar gapes, her mind working double-time to make sense of the earlier part of the conversation.

Simmone continues, unaware, “You see, Azeline happens to think he has a very handsome face, and—”

A light slap breaks Oscar’s concentration as Azeline’s hand makes contact with Simmone’s arm. The girl is blushing furiously, green eyes flashing with indignation at being exposed like this.

Oscar shifts her weight. “Ah, André… Well…”

“Well…?” Rachelle leans closer. “Please tell us! You know him better than anyone…”

Except in this matter, it seems. “If you’d like the answer to such a personal question,” she says to hide her ignorance, “you’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“Ooh,” mutters Azeline, frustrated but still smiling. “It’s torture not to know!”

Oscar inclines her head. “Excuse me,” she says, and moves toward the kitchen door, her mind whirling.

André? The lucky man is _André_?

She should probably tell him. He’s not the type of person to think about those sorts of things otherwise…at least, she doesn’t think so. He’s never brought it up to her; he’s never commented on a woman’s looks or smile or even _demeanor_ …

But surely he has an interest… Wouldn’t he like to know that he is admired? Considered handsome? That women want to swoon into his arms?

She should be happy for him, but the thought feels uncomfortable in her head.

She can scarcely remember a time without André; he’s always been _hers_. Her friend, her attendant, there for her, _with_ her. The thought of him with another woman…

Mightn’t he like a family of his own, someday? His own children, little Andrés that she might scarcely see and never know? Impossible! She hates it instantly. To never know his children, when she’s known him for so long? Can such a thing even be allowed to happen?

But it makes sense. If he marries, he’ll leave her to focus on different obligations. Desires?

It’s not as if she needs him. She’s capable and has her own work, her own hobbies. She’s strong enough to make it on her own.

But she doesn’t _want_ to.

She runs into André—quite literally—in the kitchen doorway. He puts his hands out to steady her and flashes her that little smile he always uses when he’s amused by the situation at hand. “What’s the big hurry, Oscar?” he asks.

She blinks at him, at his stupid face and the dark hair that frames it, his warm eyes, his charming little smile, and she understands suddenly what it is the maids are talking about. André _is_ a handsome man.

For some reason, it makes her chest hurt. If she hadn’t just come from the stables she’d run straight to her horse and ride and ride and ride until the feeling went away. But she can’t.

When he leaves the kitchens, will the maids ask his opinion per her recommendation?

What will his response be?

“It—it’s nothing,” she says, afraid of overhearing the answer, and pushes past him, fleeing up the back staircase toward the relative safety and quiet of her rooms.


	3. La Promesse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason Oscar never questioned André's choice not to marry. :)

By the time Oscar turned ten, she knew that she would never marry.

“It makes sense,” she told André as they sat beneath one of the trees by the creek. She gestured with her hands as if weighing them on a scale. “Because I’m actually a girl, I can’t marry another girl. And being raised as a man means I also can’t marry a man. That means I can’t marry anyone at all.”

“Does it bother you?” he wanted to know, twisting a dandelion stem between his thumb and forefinger.

“Why should it?” Her tone was matter-of-fact, her eyes serious. The idea didn’t seen to affect her at all—until she started picking at the grass, pulling the tips from each blade next to her with measured purpose, muttering, “Plenty of people choose not to marry.”

_But you’re not getting a choice_ , he wanted to say. _That makes it different_.

Oscar _hated_ to be alone. Sure, she liked to spend time by herself, but there was a difference between the two. Time spent alone did not make a person lonely, and loneliness was her biggest fear, on the same level as André’s own fear of the dark, which she indulged regularly and did not tease him for.

It seemed wrong to fail to do the same for her. Oscar was his best friend. How could he let her face such a thing as long as he had some control over it?

“Oscar,” he said, and felt his heart soften as she turned her curious gaze to him, the afternoon light catching the hue of her eyes, turning them a brilliant blue-gold. “As long as you don’t marry, I won’t, either.” He reached for her hand, his pinky catching hers gently. “ _There_. Now it’s a promise.”

“You’re being ridiculous, André,” she said, and rolled her eyes at him, but when she didn’t pull her hand away from his, he knew he’d done the right thing.


	4. Quand tu ne Peux pas Courir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the anime line in Episode 28 when André thinks something along the lines of, "If I could have run from you, I would have done so long ago." This is set before The Incident.
> 
> Mood Music: [Wounded Heart](https://youtu.be/89h7JC85KHE) by Bonnie Raitt.

The first time André wanted to leave was… Oh, it was years and years ago, he supposed, a distant memory lost to time.

The whiskey burned on the way down, so he poured another glass immediately. He wasn’t normally the sort of person to drink until the world faded away, but his options as of late had grown limited. How else could he drown more than a sorrow, more than a fear, more than the simplest pain?

How strange it was to both want Oscar and want to leave her!

His express purpose in life had always been to live as her companion, her second, her shadow, but it hurt to exist always in the dark.

_You should run from her_ , his mind said, its matter-of-fact tone reminding him of the way Oscar spoke, of her lovely blonde hair and her flashing eyes.

_Don’t run, André, don’t run._ It was his heart, pleading. _How could you bear to separate yourself from the one person whose life gives yours meaning?_

Whenever his feelings threatened to overwhelm him, the old argument always returned. It was easiest to deal with it like this: drunk enough to let his heart and mind wage war with one another.

He downed his drink; this time, it didn’t burn so strongly. At what point did respect for the law and for Oscar turn into cowardice? Why couldn’t he just admit it, say the words that had danced on the tip of his tongue all his life?

His heart trembled as he poured another glass and stared at the liquid until it grew still. _Run? What a thought! How could I ever do such a thing?_

_By simply leaving_. _Don’t torture yourself this way. Leave what hurts you. Run from it as fast as you can!_

“But I can’t,” he muttered, drawing stares from the other patrons. He hardly cared. “I can’t do it… How could I leave her? I swore…” Swore his whole life. He remembered the day as clearly as if it had happened only moments ago. Oscar in her room laughing off her sacrifice as if it hadn’t been an extraordinary feat of strength while his heart swelled with a dozen tender emotions.

How could he ever feel such a thing for anyone else? Did there exist another human being worthy of his devotion?

He loved her deeply, fully, with an intensity none could hope to match, because no one knew her like he did. No one had bothered to know her.

He could not imagine a life without her. He didn’t want to. Of course he would stay.

But to stay meant silence, a muffling of his heart. He had to keep his feelings in check, had to bind them carefully to avoid even the most basic truth slipping out. He couldn’t help but have feelings for her, but how could he ever say so?

_Je t’aime_ was so much more than just _I love you_. It was everything and it promised forever. If he dared to utter it to her face, she would know how he’d ached to be with her from the moment of their first meeting. Every gesture, every smile, every encouraging word… Their entire history together.

The meaning would shift.

What if she hated him for it? Sent him away? Washed her hands of him?

He couldn’t take that kind of pain. He wasn’t strong enough to survive it.

So it was all for nothing: the whole night brought him right back to the beginning as it always did. The beginning, where he happily trailed in the wake of Oscar’s splendor and hoped that some of her light would deign to grace his path, too.

_Run?_ What a laugh! He would stay with Oscar as always, and to protect her, to protect himself, to protect their relationship…he would lock his feelings away in a safe place and try to remember to keep them there.


	5. Floue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated on rewriting this in third person limited, but I feel this is a case where first person is actually the best perspective with which to tell this story.
> 
> Notes are [here](https://mannatea.tumblr.com/post/620289656099127296/comme-les-%C3%A9toiles-dans-le-ciel-a-rose-of). Please consider leaving a comment/kudos/et cetera!

**December 1788**

I’m not drunk.

It’s hard to get drunk on nothing.

Everything outside has gone black; the sky darkens early this time of year, and I don’t like it. I wasn’t always that way; a long time ago, I loved the cover of darkness. It made it easy to sneak into the kitchens for a late night snack, and easier still to jump out at André.

I guess I thought it was fun.

My birthday looms in the near distance. Thirty-three? Are 33-year-olds allowed to have fun?

It doesn’t matter. The joys of my childhood won’t delight me now. The dark of night feels limiting, now. The ending of one day, the insistence that a new one must come after it. It’s just another reminder of the continuous passage of time.

Nobody would stop me from entering the kitchens if I went there, anyway.

And André… It wouldn’t be funny to watch him jump, now, to see him drop what he’s carrying, his brows furrowing afterward with annoyance he’d never dare express. The sight would bring me to tears in an instant.

Why did everything have to end up complicated?

Paris is starving. Our wonderful city has been reduced to a shell of its former self, spilling over with the oppressed and the hungry and the frightened. André has been holding back his love for years and years and years, to the point of breaking under the weight of it. Shouldn’t I have seen these things coming? I should have _known_!

It’s all a blur. Thirty-three years of life and of living… Nothing but paint colors mixed together, a muddy, unreadable mess.

Why am I thinking of these things now? I push myself away from the window, stumbling over something on the floor. I don’t know what’s wrong with me to be remembering all of this again so suddenly. The mob, the carriage, _Paris_ …

I don’t think I’ve ever felt fear like that. That was over a month ago, but when I think about it, the terror takes hold as if it had only just happened yesterday. I thought I was going to lose him. How could I have been so stupid as to take André to Paris? One ill-placed blow and he would have been gone from my side forever…

Thank God for Fersen. Thank God for his timing, his understanding, his quick thinking! What would I have done without him? I might have died, and André along with me, through no fault of his own. Can’t I do anything on my own? The almost-reality of finding André dead on the cobblestones makes me feel ill. I can’t imagine what I would do without him—

What is the light without its shadow?

If I dared to tell him such, if I could find the strength to say I love him, would he believe me? Or would he doubt me, worry it was born of pity?

“Oscar.” The sound makes me jump.

Speak of the shadow and he will manifest! He’s smiling, just the slightest bit. I’ve missed that more than anything. The sight of him standing there makes my chest feel warm, overfull. Is this love? Affection? How could I hope to put a name to it?

It feels hard to keep standing suddenly. For me to feel so weak…it must be love!

“You’re drunk,” he says, his voice betraying his disappointment.

It hurts. Haven’t I put him through enough pain? His body, his heart—I’ve taken too much from him already. “I can’t be drunk,” I say, steadying myself against the settee. “I haven’t had anything to drink yet tonight.”

“Then what’s that?”

I follow his gaze to my hand. Curious…there’s a bottle there. I don’t remember picking it up. I lift it carefully, running my fingers over the smooth glass. It’s cool to the touch. Like my heart? Wine… I can taste it on my tongue. A part of me wants André to taste it, too. He’d never be so bold, not again, but I could be. I could close the distance between us, and I could press my mouth to his. He’d know I couldn’t bear to lose him, then, wouldn’t he?

Well, _wouldn’t he_?

But it won’t erase this moment. I lied to him. I never lie. I _hate_ lying! And now I have to hate myself.

“I’m sorry,” I say. The evening is a blur. I still can’t remember picking up the bottle.

“You should sleep,” André says, his voice gentle, and I turn to go, shame hot and aching in my chest.

I prefer the love. Its ache has a sweetness to it! He follows me to the bedroom door, but not a step further. I hold out my hand, the one holding the bottle, and he takes it from me, careful not to let his hand brush mine. I miss those little moments. How could I have never known they meant something?

“Good night, Oscar.” He looks sad.

And I feel it.

Am I really going to turn 33 in the coming weeks? My childhood, adolescence, adulthood… They all blur together into one terrible mess. I miss the simplicity of youth, the ease of living. Days challenging André to fencing matches and collapsing in the shade to cool down afterward. Hours spent doing nothing but talking and laughing and enjoying one another’s presence. Taking care not to be late for dinner. It all seems so strange, now.

“André,” I say, wedging my foot in the doorway so that he can’t shut it. “Am I getting old?”

He must think I’m babbling. Drunk and talking nonsense. How unlike me! But I want to know the truth. I _need_ to know. It’s so hard to grow older, to grow up and feel so aware!

But he responds kindly, as always. “You’re just tired, Oscar. Tired and overworked.”

“Everything feels like so much,” I can’t help but admit. My chest feels tight and my eyes are burning. I want to go back to being ten years old. Ten years old and ignorant, where my only conscious fear was Father finding out that André had stayed the night in my bed. It was innocent enough, back then, wasn’t it?

André’s expression shifts, turns understanding. “I know,” he says, and something about the tone of his voice, so tender and soft, makes me pull my foot back. “It’s the natural way of things. We can’t undo it now.”

It’s my turn to say, “I know.” I want to fill the silence with more than that, but nothing comes to mind.

“Good night,” he says again, when the silence grows heavy.

I step back. “Good night,” I return, the words catching oddly on my tongue.

He shuts the door, making even that simple action look gentle, and for some reason, the soft _click_ of it closing makes the heat in my eyes spill over, down my face.


	6. Être

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original story was written in first person present tense, but I changed it to third person. I hope you like some cheesy feelings 'fic! :)
> 
> Mood Music: Úrchnoc Chéin Mhic Cáinte ([Instrumental](https://youtu.be/Y4kCwxB4U3Y)) ([Lyrics](https://youtu.be/m60TUH3JO04))

Oscar doesn’t know that André is in love with her. How could she, when he’s never taken the time to tell her? She needs to hear it plainly, but instead of _je t’aime_ he drops his love like breadcrumbs, hints of the whole. A soft smile, a tender gaze, a hand at her elbow: all love, _in love_ , but she’d never assume. It’s just not her way.

Every now and then, when Oscar is in a good mood, she lets him slip endearments into his speech. These are the days he most looks forward to, because they simultaneously fuel his feelings and temper the flame.

Today is one such day. The morning light is a splendid gold, the air is crisp and fresh, and when she meets him in front of the house to take her horse, her fingers brush his. The workday is quiet and easy, the ride home uneventful, and in the evening she smiles as she sits down to dinner.

He finds her alone in the drawing room after the meal, staring at the pages of a book, foot bouncing in time to a metronome only she hears. It’s not wrong to watch for a little while, he thinks, and pauses in the doorway, drink in hand, until she turns the page.

“ _Bonsoir, ma chérie._ ” The words slide off his tongue so naturally that he can’t help but smile saying them.

Oscar looks up immediately, finger holding her place in the book. “André!” Her voice is delightful, on the verge of a pleasant laugh. “What’s brought on this good mood? Did something happen?”

He shakes away the urge to tell her that his mood is a direct reflection of her own by shaking his head, and hands her the drink. “Chocolate,” he says, sitting carefully on the arm of her chair. “Grand-mère insisted.”

_“Merci.”_

She goes back to her book and he fixes his gaze outside, at the halo of light on the horizon that signifies the end of the day. If he closes his eyes now, he can almost imagine that there is more to their relationship than he’ll ever be allowed to have. He can’t hold her, can’t kiss her, but for an instant he can imagine what it might be like to try.

He stands before he can act on the impulse. “Good night,” he says softly.

“Leaving so soon?” She glances up and him and he realizes that she looks disappointed.

His heart bends to her whim, as always. “I suppose a few more minutes won’t hurt,” he says, and takes his seat again as she smiles and points to her book, and tells him she’d like his opinion on the story.

Maybe he’ll never have the chance to hold her.

Maybe he’ll never be allowed to kiss her mouth.

But he can sit here with her for as long as she’ll allow it. And it still feels wonderful to him to just _be_ here, with her, quietly, just like this.


	7. Bois d'Allumage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original was only 346 words long and frankly terrible, so I hope this rewrite is a massive improvement. I basically started over and didn't reference the original beyond the basic scope of the story. Notes can be read [here](https://mannatea.tumblr.com/post/622028779210096640/comme-les-%C3%A9toiles-dans-le-ciel-a-rose-of).
> 
> I went with "Granny" for André's way of referring to his grandmother. In the French translation he calls her Grandmother (and so does Oscar, sometimes), but Nanny/Granny sounds better in English, I think, for this time period.

The master’s voice boomed through the still corridors of the mansion, making the servants quiver. Nobody went near the study, not even the bravest of them. The sky outside had grown as dark as the mood of the house, and no bit of gossip was worth the risk of being caught. He was not a forgiving man, not even for the sake of his youngest and favorite child. What quarter would be given to a servant, then?

Marron’s heart tightened at the sound of her grandson’s voice. With time it grew louder, almost rising to eclipse the master’s. She couldn’t understand the syllables he spoke, but there was a passion behind his words that he’d rarely allowed himself to express. André had always been somewhat quiet and reserved, even as a child. Level-headed, gentle.

The tone, the earnestness, the sharp truth. This was the one thing she’d both feared and hoped would come to pass: an admission of a fervent but impossible love; a wave crashing against the rocky shore, a whisper in a dream!

André was eight years old the first time she’d laid eyes on him. First his father had wasted from disease, and then, after a long and difficult battle, so too had his mother. By the time the news had finally reached the de Jarjayes estate, both bodies were buried and the beds burned. She found him sitting in the corner of his parents’ rented room, timid and uncertain. The poor boy. He’d looked up at her with those gentle eyes of his, the same eyes that she’d once seen in her daughter, and she couldn’t help herself. Perhaps it was foolish of an old woman to dedicate herself to raising yet another child, but how could she not? It was as clear to her today as it had been all those years ago: her arms had wrapped around him, her tears fell into his hair. _“You don’t need to worry any more,”_ she’d said.

She brought him to the de Jarjayes manor in the hopes of raising him well, of giving him a future. As the master would have it, André’s future was to be Oscar: Oscar’s playmate, Oscar’s male influence, Oscar’s servant.

Even then, Marron felt a fondness for Oscar that she’d never indulged in with the older girls. It was easy to blame it on age, as she’d grown old in the time it took the others to grow up, but it was more than that. It was the mischievous spark in Oscar’s eyes. She was bold and fierce and silly all at once: a great handful. She remembered thinking, all those years ago, when Oscar was still small, that this little one would need every ounce of courage and boldness God had so thoughtfully given her as she was destined for a great and terrible future.

Of course André had fallen in love with her. How could he help it? He’d been expected to spent almost all his time at her side, and after his initial shock of meeting Oscar had faded, he’d eagerly awaited her appearance every single day. His duty was to be there for her, and he reveled in it.

Therein was Marron’s greatest conflict: how terrible for André to feel so strongly about someone he could never be allowed to love…

But how fortunate for Oscar that someone like André, who knew her better than anyone and still thoroughly loved her, allowed himself to foolishly indulge in it.

Foolishly, for how could anything ever become of such a love?

A scene came to her then, in the flickering candlelight of the dim hall. André, nine years old, elbows resting on his knees as he peeled a potato in the kitchens. It was a warm day, made warmer by the bread baking in the oven.

 _“I’m going to marry Oscar someday.”_ The words had come out of his mouth so matter-of-fact, she’d been startled.

_“What?”_

_“I’ve decided I’m going to marry Oscar.”_

She held her tongue against disappointing him. The master would never give his favorite child to a servant to wed, nor would he go to beg the king for such a favor—not for someone with as little to recommend him as André. She wiped her hands on her apron and adjusted her spectacles instead. _“What brought you to this decision?”_

 _“Well, nobody else will do it,”_ he said. _“They say no one wants a wife who wears men’s clothes and fences better than them, but I don’t mind those things.”_

_“Who told you that?”_

His ears turned red. _“The stablemen, one of the gardeners… Maybe others. They said she'll never know a woman's happiness.”_ He lifted the peel away from the potato in one complete spiral, and dropped it into the bucket. _“Don’t you think it’s unfair, Granny? That she would have to live her life alone?”_

Marron sighed and shook her head. _“Don’t you worry what those layabout gossips have to say about Oscar,”_ she said, her tone firm.

He’d been easily distracted, then. There was more work to do, and then a fencing match with Oscar in the afternoon. He never brought it up again and she’d assumed for a little while that it was just a childhood affection, the love of a friend.

But the years passed and he’d never looked at anyone else, not even at the age he’d been expected to. It had always been Oscar. Only Oscar.

Oscar who could never marry, and André who could never marry her.

A tragic and impossible love for both of them.

* * *

The voices softened, quieted. There was the sound of a sword being picked up and then sheathed. Marron pressed herself back against the corridor wall as the door to the study flew open and then closed again, the sound like lightning across the sky. The master’s footsteps headed toward the foyer. He said nothing as he passed the servants, but he looked angry and troubled.

When he rounded the corner at the end of the hall, she inched closer to the study and heard Oscar’s voice. There was sorrow buried in her words, whatever they were. The sound was followed by André’s voice—calm again, reassuring.

They were safe.

The ache in her chest spread to her eyes, making them burn. She hurried to her room and knelt by the bed, breath catching, and prayed harder than she’d ever prayed in her life.

“O mighty God, have mercy. Have mercy on those of us so much smaller than Yourself!! What are we to do with the love You brought into this world if not express it? Would You prefer two such souls remain lonely rather than love one another? Is it truly a sin?”

She bent her forehead to her folded hands and tried to remember when she’d first noticed it, but it seemed to her as if it had almost always been there. It had started so simply, so small in its scope. When had the glowing embers turned into a dancing flame?

Marron thought of the day Oscar was born; she had seemed so small in the master’s large arms. She hadn’t argued more than a moment that day. It wasn’t her place to question the motivations and methods of those the world deemed better than herself.

For a moment she was back in the kitchen with André. Nine years old, a spiraling potato peel in his hand. He dropped it in the bucket.

_“Don’t you think it’s unfair, Granny?”_

God above,” she cried, tears spilling down her face and seeping between her fingers, “if the fault is mine let me suffer for it!”


End file.
